Words of Wisdom
by Rascal
Summary: This is a dull experiment in stately language. Post WotR. Do with it what you will. : )


It was truly said that Denethor, son of Ecthelion, kept his own counsel; but there never was a great ruler of men, be he king or Steward, who was lonely for want of advice or those who dispense it. Many of the men who crowded around the seat of Stewards, like carrion birds about a corpse, waiting for Denethor's wits to die, lived still in cold halls in the sixth circle of the White City; there Faramir was summoned in the 3019 year of the Third Age, as summer bade farewell to spring.

He felt, to his wonderment, no fear in their company. Always as a child, they had seemed to him doughty in wits, tall and inscrutable, with faces carved of stone; now he saw them as they were – mere men, who had not the judgment to cease their meddling even when the true king sat upon the throne. Still he bowed low, for they were old and had studied long, and were well-versed in lore and the histories of men, and were worthy of respect. They sat before him, in a row that curved along the spine of the wall, Vergond, Hurlin, Gelhadar, Gothone, and Inlord; and the gleam in each eye was cold and disapproving.

He who sat in the center spoke first. His voice was low, but strong. "Faramir, son and lord of Gondor," he said. "You intend to plight your troth to a maiden of Rohan."

It was not a question. Faramir favored the speaker, Hurlin, with a slow look; "I do," he agreed. Did they call him out of the sun into their musty rooms, he wondered, merely to pass judgment on his bride-to-be?

"She has sorcery," Inlord, to Hurlin's left, affirmed. "And though her magicks be white, even as our Rider uses, the sorcery of a woman is not to be trusted. They say she cast her shade onto the fields of the Pelennor, while all about her men lay dying."

An expression of skepticism, unbidden but irrepressible, touched Faramir's brow. None of the sages and historians, he knew, had ever taken a wife, and most thought all things female to be but the first step in the pathway to darkness. Still, Faramir chose his words gently; "She hath no sorcery, milords, save that which belongs to any beautiful woman – and that she uses but unknowingly and without intent. It was not her shade that was seen on the Pelennor, but her flesh and blood; and she slew the Witch King, as you would do well to remember. And her heart beats with the blood of Kings."

"There are ladies of Gondor wise and fair," pleaded another man, abruptly abandoning that tack. The lines of his face had sunken so far from old that Faramir knew not which name was his. "And you could take as your wife one of those; and she too would be a worthy wife for the son of a Steward."

"Éomer King, brother to the Lady Éowyn, has granted his consent, and Aragorn Elessar of the house of Telcontar has himself bestowed his blessing."

"And yet, Faramir," he said, his voice soft and persuasive, "Would it not be better to have a woman born of your own people?"

Faramir disdained to display the core of his heart to those before him, but though he spoke with all formality, he did not shirk the truth. "Learnéd men of Gondor; you have both years and wisdom, and I do not scorn your advice – but neither will I heed it. I should sooner be struck both deaf and blind than honor another woman over the White Lady of Rohan."

A bent man, wrapped in furs, sighed deep into his chest and spake thusly: "Faramir, you are young yet; you will learn that there are other women capable of slaking your desire. Think on it, for a fortnight or a month, and you will find what you would have is _love_ is naught but a fleeting fancy."

Faramir's eyes blazed forth, and the men in their stone seats recoiled, for in that moment he was very like his father. "Greybeard, I say unto you," he cried: "You are not wise." And he might have said more, but his temper he mastered, and bowing briefly, left their hallowed company.

The old men spoke no more to Faramir, and bent never the ear of the king; it is to be supposed that they died in their cold hall, where their words, softly spoken, troubled none but one another.

And in the sunshine, Faramir sought Éowyn, and finding her, took her hands in his own. Her hair was wind-tossed and wild; and the heart of Faramir was glad, for he too kept his own counsel, and found it good indeed.


End file.
